A Series of Fortunate Events
by badwolf156
Summary: A series of events leading to escualting sexual tension between Sherlock and John. Set at the end of The Hounds of Baskerville, in which John gets drunk in order to try and remove himself from his emotions for Sherlock, which fails terribly. Johnlock. Please Review!
1. Unspoken Agreement

_This is my first attempt at fanfiction so any feedback would be much appreciated. More chapters will be posted if there's any interest in this one, thank you for reading!_

* * *

John had always known it was there. From the first moment he had met the illustrious Sherlock Holmes he had been captivated by him and unable to prevent the articulations of admiration escaping his lips – 'that was amazing, fantastic'.

Of course almost everyone who met Sherlock was impressed, at least initially, but John couldn't repress that initial amazement and join the unbridled cynicism of other's. That first spark of admiration remained and grew, until it glowed outwardly, clear in his manner to those around him. And within his growing wonder at the complexities of a mind so sharp, a deeper feeling grew. John had become possessive, even when Sherlock drove him to the point of insanity or to harsh derision with the flippancy of the things he sometimes said – 'I don't have _friends'. _

But John knew they had a deeper understanding. He also knew that Sherlock was married to his work, but John's increasingly futile attempts to separate himself from his feelings towards Sherlock began to no longer even appeal to him. They both knew the main reason he interviewed the therapist was because Sherlock had asked him to, and at the back of John's mind there was a silent hope that he just might be able to push the great Sherlock Holmes to some level of jealousy.

They had one last night in Dartmoor and after the events of the last few days John needed a drink. Many drinks.

* * *

It turned out the road out of town was blocked and wouldn't be free until the next morning. They'd spent the day tying up loose ends and visiting Henry to check he was alright; although this was by John's insistence alone, Sherlock couldn't understand what there was to consolidate.

"The man has just witnessed the death of a man he thought was protecting him for years Sherlock! You know that thing, sentiment?"

"But the man was secretly manipulating him with drugged fog John, it would be entirely irrational to hold on to any sentiment." Sherlock threw his hands in the air.

"Well I'm still talking to you after I found out you drugged me, Sherlock. But luckily for you it didn't destroy my entire life. Regardless, he saw a man blown sky high; I've seen soldiers go mad over much less and he was fragile as it is. We're going to see him."

Sherlock groaned softly before setting off. John paused for a moment watching him. He turned his head slightly, if only that man knew John often pushed him into these sorts of arguments just so he could hear that deep growl of irritation escape from Sherlock's throat. Just so he could listen to the multitudes of low notes and imagine hearing them in a very different situation. John quickly displaced the thought from his mind and ran to catch up with Sherlock, the man who was driving him to such ridiculous means.

As he grew level with Sherlock's strides it was now John's turn to groan, Sherlock was doing that thing with his cheekbones and his coat collar up again. He was convinced Sherlock knew what it did to him. He huffed, clenched his jaw and strode in front of Sherlock and tried to focus on other things.

* * *

Now it was the evening. They had had dinner, although Sherlock had at first refused to eat anything. However, after another short argument containing a multitude of groaning, to John's delight, Sherlock agreed to eat.

After that Sherlock had abruptly gone to read by the fire so John had gone for a whiskey at the bar. He ran over all that had happened in the past few days, or at least he tried to. John's mind kept returning to that moment in the graveyard.

_"Listen, what I said before John, I meant it. I don't have friends. I've just got one."_

John had had to put on a face of indifference and walk away before he had hugged that man senseless. Yes, there was an understanding between them, never voiced outwardly and only ever alluded to in precious moments such as that one.

John sighed and ordered another drink. The barman winked at him as he gave it to him.

"You two had a little domestic then? Don't worry, me and mine have those all the time!" He giggled as he walked away.

John sighed again. Was their unspoken understanding so obvious to everyone in the world? He ordered another whiskey.

He heard someone sit in the seat at the bar next to his. "I heard you had a rough night last night."

John looked up, it was Louise Mortimer, the therapist. "You have no idea. I'm sorry about what happened by the…"

"Really it's fine. I spoke to Henry this morning, he told me everything. I guess I can understand why you pretended to be a friend."

"I guess I sort of am a 'new' friend after all that happened."

She smiled, "Yes, I suppose so. How long are you here for then?"

"I leave tomorrow."

She smiled at him. "Buy a girl a drink?"

They chatted and drank. Although John wasn't exactly a 'ladies' man', he laughed inwardly at the irony of that statement, he could see where this night might lead if he let it. He looked over at Sherlock. Even from the bar John could see Sherlock's sharp eyes reflected with orange in the fire, scanning through his book at an incredible speed. Devouring the words and storing the useful information, the heat shining from his eyes from the fire giving them a devilish gleam. He was totally unaware of what John was doing it seemed, so John turned back to Louise and ordered another drink.

* * *

However, Sherlock was not entirely unaware of what John was up to. His brain could concentrate of numerous levels of activity if he so wanted it to. This book, that couple in the corner – the woman blatantly cheating and the man entirely smitten, the single Mother in the dark corner clearly reminiscing about past loves; people were so easy to read. And John. He was aware of what John was doing also.

He noticed John's usually sharp soldier posture beginning to sag under the weight of the numerous whiskeys he was drinking. John's humorous attempts at flirting with that woman, although, surprisingly they seemed to be working. And he noticed the many glances John sent his way, the one's that John thought he didn't notice but that were getting increasingly obvious the more lucid he was becoming. Careful John, Sherlock thought in-between the other levels of thinking happening simultaneously in his brain, she's starting to notice you always looking this way. Sherlock also tried to ignore the different emotions within himself that accompanied each of these observations of John, it appeared he was able to induce feelings of jealousy in Sherlock Holmes, but John was in no state to notice his triumph.

Sherlock continued to observe all around him. After another half hour he blinked suddenly, his concentration broken. He had momentarily lost all other trains of observation apart from the one attached to John as he had placed his hand on the woman's knee. A swell of anger rose in Sherlock, but he quickly quelled it, he had become efficient at doing so due to the frankly alarming number on women John seemed to feel the need to be involved with. He shook himself, and sent the probes of thought back out in their rightful directions, checking to make sure they were strongly planted.

They slipped again as soon as he saw John begin to slide off of his chair.

* * *

Things had been getting increasingly hazy in John's mind. But the distraction from his own thoughts was relatively welcome. But John hadn't noticed quite how much he had had to drink until he had to put his arm out in front of him onto Louise's leg to stop himself falling. She giggled and he smiled back, but John found he wasn't enjoying her attentions as much as he probably should. He had another drink in the hopes of remedying his stupid brain.

When John felt himself falling the second time he hardly noticed. Then, just before he hit the floor he felt two slender arms slide under his own and pull him up and despite John's numbed brain shocks were sent up and down his sides. Sherlock.

John heard something murmured to Louise, in that superior voice he'd been longing to hear all night, an apology maybe as he was dragged up onto his feet. John's arm was placed over those surprisingly strong shoulders as Sherlock's arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him towards and up the stairs.

He heard a lock turn and a door open as he was pulled through. John felt himself being gently placed on the inn's bed and the arm around his waist begin to retract. Despite his inebriated state he quickly grabbed the neck his arm was still wrapped around, pulling slightly on the hair at the back of Sherlock's head and opened his eyes to see the man's incredulous eyes staring back at him. There was a long pause, filled with the intensity of Sherlock's gaze.

"John…", Sherlock said slowly, the deepness of the sound making it hardly audible, if John had been in a more alert state he might have heard something else in that voice.

"You, are a very shilly man, tryhing to set me… up, with that womath."

"Clearly", was the cold answer.

"Well shorry if, Mmmmmr mysterious here juhst walked off… ash shoon as we finished dinner!" John was only vaguely aware of the slurring inaudibility of his own words.

Sherlock smirked. "Get some sleep John, I will see you in the morning, when hopefully you will be slightly more coherent. Although largely, this is as coherent as you ever seem to be."

John smiled happily, he hardly heard Sherlock's words to him as her blurted -"Yourth my besht friend, jusht like you shaid, I'd be happshy if you were my onlthy friend."

"Come along John, time to let go." There was a hint of amusement and deep affection in Sherlock's voice.

John felt long fingers remove his own from the back of the neck he so wanted to pull down closer to himself. John heard the murmur of some soft words from Sherlock he wouldn't be able to remember the next morning, and then there was a soft click as the door closed and everything blurred away into darkness.


	2. Instincts

_Chapter 2, please read and review!_

* * *

John woke with a head sluggish and painful. He pulled himself out of bed and slowly dressed before heading downstairs.

He found Sherlock sitting outside with a black coffee. "What the hell happened last night?" His recollection was jumbled and hazy. He could remember Louise; he could remember it seeming to go well. He could remember arms around him, but their significance he could not.

"Oh, nothing to worry about John. We must get back to London swiftly, cases are waiting." Sherlock was not looking directly at him, rather scanning the other holiday goers with his inscrutable eye.

"So I didn't act like a total tit then?"

"Well, I wouldn't dispute that John."

"What about Loui…?"

But Sherlock was already up and heading for the car. John shook his head, that was that.

* * *

Sherlock could tell almost immediately this case was not worth his time.

The woman was in her mid-30's, brown hair, pretty in terms of human convention he supposed. She sat neatly on their sofa, knees together, slightly nervous.

"I've had some jewellery stolen; it was a couple of days ago. The police have been useless so I thought I'd come here."

This sounded dull, Sherlock wasn't really interested in whatever June, Julie, he'd already deleted her name from his mind, was saying.

"Is there anything important about the jewellery stolen?" Sherlock asked. "Is it of high historical importance, tied up in some elaborate Cold War espionage plot?"

The woman stared back at him blankly while John began to furrow his eyebrows in Sherlock's direction.

"Um, no. They have no real importance or value. But sentimentally they are priceless to me."

Sherlock sighed loudly. His meaning could not be misinterpreted as he went to go and stare out of the window instead. He was right; this was clearly not worth his time.

"Sherlock?" he heard John say, he could hear the warning in his voice.

"It's not worth my time John, it's barely scraping a 3/10."

Sherlock stared out of the window, trying to see how much he could deduce from the people walking down the street, stretching his mind to try and discover the inner-most details of a man far down the road he could hardly make out while hoping the woman would just leave.

As he observed the ebb and flow of London Sherlock could hear John talking to the woman. Asking questions, playing the detective now Sherlock had deemed her unimportant. But soon the questions of the case began to turn to general chatter, Sherlock twitched slightly, was John flirting with her?

Sherlock turned, John was. From his body language John clearly found the woman attractive and she seemed to be enjoying the attention. Sherlock turned back to the window; it was unfortunate John wasn't drunk like he had been the other night, giving Sherlock an easy excuse to remove him from that therapist's company before anything had happened.

Sherlock heard John stand; he was offering her tea now. Tea! Oh this truly had gone too far. John's futile attempts at seduction were almost as bad as his futile attempts at deduction.

Sherlock could feel the same emotions stirring in him as when he had seen John with that therapist. Animal instincts he never felt at any other time causing the blood to run faster sending oxygen rushing to his brain. But Sherlock's brain wasn't sharper, the added oxygen didn't cause a swell in his observations of the intricacies around him; it just caused his focus on John to multiply until he could only see him. Great waves of possessiveness rose and crashed through his chest, this had to end. He easily deduced that he would have to remove the woman to alleviate these feelings.

Sherlock turned and grabbed the woman off of the sofa by her arm.

"It was your brother who took them. I just heard you say he works in the city, a banker or perhaps an investor then. Something financial anyway. So, he was probably harmed in the crash. I just heard you say to John that you haven't heard from him much since you mother's death, bitter perhaps, seeing at you inherited this jewelry and he did not. Right so far?" He didn't allow her time to answer as he continued to pull her by the arm towards the stairs, speaking at a million miles a second and drowning out any conversation she attempted with John.

"You are clearly not that intelligent, average IQ, perhaps below. So, your brother isn't too bright either. He took the jewels, believing them to be of great value, idiot. They are probably up on eBay or something seeing as he's an imbecile." He pushed her out of the back door. "Also talking about your dead Mother is a poor way to flirt. Good day." He then duly slammed the door in her face.

He smiled to himself, good, he thought. I have once again saved John from the unwanted persistence of the female sex.

Sherlock turned to see John standing there, a blank look of shock on his face.

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell was that!? You could have at least shown her out of the front door for Christ's sake!"

Sherlock's eyes darkened. He grabbed John by the shoulders and shoved him against the wall of the small hall space, looming down over him. He pinned John there with his eyes, inches from his face so he could feel their breath meeting between them.

He held John there. Sherlock could feel a tension building between their bodies escalated by the increased mingling of their fast breath.

He pulled even closer to John's face, causing those animal instincts which fogged his brain to become even more acute.

"This is a job John." Sherlock managed, growling in a low, menacing voice. "I would implore you to keep that in mind."

Sherlock held John's gaze a few moments longer before releasing him, disappearing up the stairs. The rise of those animal instincts giving him an inhuman swiftness as he tried to shake them out of his body and clear his mind.

John was left trembling and weak against the wall trying to get his breath back.


	3. Deductions

_The tension builds a bit more in this chapter. Thank you for the reviews, and please keep giving me feedback, enjoy!_

* * *

John was excited about his date with June. She was nice, pretty and he thought intelligent, no matter Sherlock 'deduced' about her. Sherlock seemed to be trying to deduce as many awful things about her as he could since he had found out John was going on a date with her.

"_You know I can tell from her right forearm that she has never had chicken pox John. A bit of a liability if you ask me."_

At first John had almost been hopeful that Sherlock might have become slightly jealous. Especially after that encounter he had had with Sherlock in the hallway. It had left John in an almost higher state of dizziness than ever encountered during air-strikes in Afghanistan.

But Sherlock acted as if none of it had ever happened and John had to remind himself that Sherlock made these harsh observations and intrusions about almost every woman John was ever interested in. John's hopes it might be a sign of affection were soon dashed, it seemed more likely that it was just Sherlock's way of emphasising the stupidity of John's base human needs for the companionship of women.

Regardless, as John knew, Sherlock was 'married' to his work. John could spend his life with this man but not in the way he most longed for. Why shouldn't he enjoy a nice night out with June? It was a bloody miracle she was still interested after Sherlock's treatment of her, and any woman who wasn't deterred from John by the trepidation's of his flatmate was worth pursuing.

John nodded to himself in mental reassurance; tonight would be a good night, enjoyable and not fogged by thoughts of a certain encounter in a hallway, of Sherlock's dark eyes holding him down, his warm breath coming faster and faster…

John shook his head again. He had to stop thinking about it. Every time he did he could swear Sherlock knew, catching his eye with a knowing look. No, enough was enough. He needed a proper relationship, not just the one in his head with his sociopathic flatmate. June seemed like a nice woman and he would do her the courtesy of giving her his full attention. He just wanted a simple relationship with someone who was reliable and liked tea. Intelligence wasn't everything, and besides Sherlock had enough of that for everyone. No, stop. He wouldn't make her compete with Sherlock.

And with that thought John walked into the living room, grabbed his coat and said a quick goodbye to Sherlock before he could attempt to put him off his date by diagnosing some latent sexual problems from June's childhood just from the colour of her watch strap and the way she had sat when she had come with a case.

* * *

"Goodbye Sherlock, I will be back late". That was all John had said before he all but flew down the stairs.

Sherlock had been sitting in the living room listening intently to the sounds of John getting ready for his date in his room. The anxious footfalls indicated apprehension, pacing up and down. However, the reason for John's apprehension was hard to determine without actually seeing his face. Sherlock was hoping to deter John from his date by suggesting he was feeling low tonight, perhaps he would go on a relapse. But the selfish man had rushed out of the room before Sherlock could attempt to worry him.

Sherlock huffed and jumped up as he heard the front door close, pausing for a moment, then headed straight for John's bedroom.

Sherlock went straight to John's wardrobe, what was missing? He was hoping for a good look at John's clothing before he had left, but the swiftness of his exit hadn't given Sherlock as much time as he would have liked for deductions. John's best shoes were gone as Sherlock had thought, so, he was trying to impress her. He had also worn an expensive shirt, but not his most expensive. Sherlock grappled with this for a few moments. John could either not be wearing his most expensive shirt because he didn't thing the dull June was worth the effort, or perhaps he didn't want to appear overly flashy. Although the latter seemed more plausible Sherlock preferred his initial deduction. John was probably looking for a short flirtation, nothing serious. Sherlock smiled at this thought and moved on; even though he knew John was not the sort for that kind of behavior it comforted him somewhat.

Next he went to John's underwear draw. From what Sherlock knew John had not worn his favorite pair, nor the pair he had worn on the last date he had a weeks before with… he could never remember their names. They were not important, only John was.

Sherlock smiled, John had neither worn the red pair he always seemed to on Monday's, of which Sherlock was sure John wore just because he knew the way it brought on those animalistic thoughts in Sherlock. He had, however, worn his dark navy ones. These indicated John was hopeful about this date and his intentions with the woman were perhaps for more than a kiss on the stairs. Sherlock slammed the drawer shut and stormed into the kitchen. This wasn't looking hopeful.

He checked John's tea mug. From the level of staining on the mug since its last washing he could tell John had had three cups of tea while preparing for this date. From previous dating information Sherlock knew the higher the number of cups the more apprehensive John was, indicating how much he liked the woman. Three was relatively high, not the highest, but not the lowest either.

Sherlock darted from room to room making a series of quick deductions – how much cologne John had used, which shampoo, how much money he had taken. Finally he collapsed onto the sofa,his hands coming together under his chin. Final analysis indicated John liked this woman and was hopeful for the repercussions of the date; even perhaps leading to some form of bodily sexual contact with this woman. However, from what Sherlock knew of human mating rituals John was not going to have intercourse with her tonight. The study of some popular culture indicated to Sherlock that this meant John was a 'gentlemen'.

Sherlock's mind was going at an incredible speed. Lines of thought darted this way and that, like hundreds of ants pouring from the nest. Never stopping, insistent.

Images of John and the woman flashed across all of these trains of thought, all of the possible conversations and outcomes of the night flashing through Sherlock's brain. These images of them became increasingly prevalent until they had staunched the flow of all other thoughts. Bold, fast and maddening they came, stopping all coherence. Those animal instincts raged with the increasing rapidity and intimacy of the images of John and the woman in his mind.

Sherlock jumped up grabbing his head and yelling. He paced up and down, he was manic. He needed to think and stop thinking simultaneously. How was he supposed to focus with these ridiculous images blocking everything?

He grabbed his violin but it shook in his hands. He threw it down. He turned on the television to one of those ridiculous shows John liked. His brain couldn't even focus on that, the meanings of the images flashing across the screen were lost to him underneath the weight of other thoughts. He stabbed the numbers on the controller until a music channel came one. He turned it up, hoping if it was loud enough it would drown out his thoughts. Instead the music merged with the images in his mind, John and the woman moving together to the rhythm of the music, pulsing and turning, moving faster and faster. Sherlock turned it off in a rage.

No drugs, no cigarettes. He had to numb his brain. During his pacing he bumped a cabinet; bottles clinked against one another.

Sherlock stopped. Ah, he thought, his mind slowing as he saw the path to his salvation. If it had worked with John perhaps it would work with him. Whiskey.

* * *

John returned at 1am. He walked with some fatigue up the stairs. It had been a nice evening but the constant repression of thoughts about Sherlock had tired him.

June had been pleasant company. Everything had gone well, John had been charming and kind, June rewarding him with a few quick, embarrassed kisses.

The living room was dark, lit only by a small lamp in the corner. John walked to the kitchen and filled the kettle and sighed as he leaned back against the kitchen counter, stretching out his back and enjoying he silence the darkness of the room created.

"How was your evening?"

John jumped; he assumed Sherlock was in his room. But there he was curled in the armchair in the corner in his dressing gown staring at John from the dark. His voice had been heavy and laboured.

John gathered himself; the deep rumble of that voice sent a train of uncivilised thoughts crashing through his brain.

"Fine, yes, fine thank you."

He paused, deciding to use a joke he had wanted to for some months on Sherlock. "We had dinner, but we weren't hungry."

Before John was able to even let out a short chuckle at his own hilarity a dark shape was moving at an alarming speed towards him.

John felt himself slammed against the kitchen cabinet, pinned there by Sherlock's body; the same look was there in Sherlock's eyes as had been the other day in the hallway. John was hardly able to register this, or the alcohol on Sherlock's breath, before his head was wrenched to the side by long fingers in his hair.

John tried to move but Sherlock's other hand came up to his shoulder holding him still and pulling his shirt down over his shoulder, his body still flush against Sherlock's. John felt hot, thick breath on his neck, his shiver causing his whole body to grind against Sherlock's, eliciting a deep growl from Sherlock's throat against his neck.

The growl was followed by a sharp movement and a cry of shock from John as Sherlock came down on his neck, biting and sucking hard.

John was breathless, unaware of how long he was held like this. The pressure was insistent, hungry, never waning. He couldn't grasp any thought, only one word.

"Sherlock?" It escaped as a gasped question from John's lips.

The pressure on his neck receded and stopped and John almost regretted his calling out. He was surprised by the gentleness of soft lips brushing lightly back and forth over the delicate attacked area of his neck. Their chests were pressed against one another, rising and falling in unison, sharp, shallow breaths.

Those lips crept softly and slowly up John's neck, his head still held in place by Sherlock's hand, but in a gentler grip. Lips brushed by his ear and held there just as those thick, soft curls caressed his face.

It felt as if hours passed, and then a deep, almost incoherent growl broke through the mounting tension of pressed bodies.

"So people know…" There were dark, emphasised pauses between the words.

"… you… are… mine."

The last word was the deepest of all and it shocked through all that John was.

Before John was able to register any coherent thought he was released and sank to the floor against the cabinet.

The body which had been holding his weak legs up detangled itself from him and was gone. Leaving John alone, his head and heart pounding, the intense pulse concentrated on the burning area of his neck. All thoughts fled to that burning point and he was left panting and disjointed for an even longer time than he had been just a few days before.


End file.
